CHAPTER 15
Amelia
The Café de Flore was exactly as I’d imagined from all the movies and books. Red leather banquettes, art deco mirrors, waiters in crisp white aprons gliding between tables of well-dressed Parisians.
Florin had told me to meet him here for a special date, and the excitement in his voice had made my stomach flutter with anticipation.
I spotted him immediately, standing near a private booth at the back. When he saw me, his face lit up and he rushed over, pulling me into his arms and kissing me in that slow, deliberate way that always made my knees weak.
“Ma belle,” he murmured against my lips. “You look stunning.”
He guided me to the booth, his hand warm on the small of my back. But something was different today. He seemed almost nervous. Bouncing slightly on his toes, checking his watch, glancing toward the entrance.
“What’s going on?” I asked as we slid into the plush seats. “Why are you so excited?”
“I showed my masterpiece to someone,” Florin said, his gray-blue eyes sparkling. “The painting of you. And he wants to meet you.”
“Who is he?”
Before Florin could answer, the hostess approached our booth, leading someone behind her.
An older man appeared—and my heart stood still for a moment.
He was extremely handsome, maybe mid-forties, with silver hair perfectly styled back from his face.
Tall, easily six-two, with a muscular build evident even under his impeccably tailored charcoal suit.
He carried an air of authority I’d rarely seen, the kind of presence that made everyone in the café turn to look.
The hostess and staff clearly knew him, greeting him with respectful nods as he passed.
Florin jumped out of his seat and embraced the man warmly. Then he turned to me, practically vibrating with excitement.
“Amelia, this is my brother, Lucien Blanchet.”
Lucien looked at me with warm, dark eyes and a smile that made my stomach flutter. “Bonjour, Amelia.”
He came closer, and in the French way, kissed both my cheeks. His cologne was subtle and expensive, and up close I could see laugh lines around his eyes that only added to his appeal.
I was sure I’d seen him before. The name was familiar in a way that nagged at the back of my mind.
And then it hit me.
Oh God.
This was THE Lucien Blanchet—CEO of Beauté éternelle. Mark’s boss.
My husband’s boss was Florin’s brother.
I felt a weird kind of excitement thinking I’m sitting across from the man responsible for our entire move from suburban New Jersey to the glittering streets of Paris. I smiled as Lucien sat down across from us, his movements graceful and confident.
“So, Amelia,” Florin began, leaning forward eagerly. “I showed my brother some of my latest works, and—”
“And,” Lucien interrupted gently, his voice deep and melodic with that French accent, “I have not seen anyone more beautifully captured on canvas as you. You are the true picture of a real woman.”
His eyes held mine, and I felt heat creep up my neck.
“The moment I saw your painting,” Lucien continued, “I knew you were the one I’d been looking for. A true woman. A woman worth fighting the world for.”
The intensity in his gaze made my heart flutter and my knees wobble a bit.
“My brother has a proposition for you,” Florin said, unable to contain his excitement.
Lucien’s smile widened slightly. “How would you feel about being the face for the world’s biggest cosmetics brand?
If you say yes, you would be signed for a photoshoot for our new lipstick line.
The photos don’t need to be nude,” he added quickly.
“But I need to capture that face of yours. That mesmerizing, real beauty.”
I opened my mouth, but no words came out.
This couldn’t be happening. This had to be some kind of mistake.
“I... I don’t know what to say,” I managed.
Lucien’s expression shifted, his brow furrowing with concern. He reached across the table and took my hand in his. His touch sent tingles spreading through my body—warm, strong fingers enveloping mine.
“What happened?” he asked softly, searching my face. “What’s wrong?”
I bit my lip, my mind racing. This was Mark’s boss, talking about the campaign Mark had been struggling with. And right now, he was asking me to be the face of that campaign.
I took a breath, knowing I had to be honest.
“Lucien,” I said quietly. “You need to know this... I’m Mark Davis’s wife.”
Lucien’s smile reached all the way to the corners of his cheeks. “Amelia, I already know. I looked you up. And I also know,” he glanced at his brother and then back at me, “from my brother, and from the grapevine in the office, that you and Mark are in an open marriage.”
“So…” I started.
“So…?” Luciene asked.
“So…you don’t think that would be a problem?” I asked.
“Oh Amelia, you being Mark’s wife should have nothing to do with your decision about this campaign.” Luciene said.
I shifted on the couch, millions of thoughts crossing my mind at once.
“Amelia,” he continued, his voice dropping lower. “This is business. You are perfect for this campaign—not because you’re Mark’s wife, but because you embody everything we’re trying to capture. Real beauty. Real confidence. Real feminine power.”
He leaned closer, still holding my hand.
“And if your husband is foolish enough to be in an open marriage with a woman like you,” he added, his dark eyes intense, “then perhaps he deserves to feel a bit uncomfortable when his boss recognizes your worth.”
Florin was looking between us with growing understanding. “You like her too,” he said to his brother. “Don’t you?”
Lucien smiled, not taking his eyes off me. “How could I not? She’s extraordinary.”
My heart was racing. This was insane. Mark’s boss and Mark’s boss’s brother—both of them looking at me like I was something precious.
“I need to think about this,” I said, my voice shaky.
“Of course,” Lucien said immediately. “Take all the time you need. But Amelia?” He squeezed my hand gently. “Don’t let your husband’s inability to see your value determine your own worth. You deserve to be celebrated. To be seen. To be worshiped for the masterpiece you are.”
And looking into Lucien Blanchet’s dark eyes, I almost believed him.